Grace's Paradox

Time to confess
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The sins of the day:
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One two three or four,
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Every second I waste.
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He knows it all;
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Why bother with lies?
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After all, I had reasons;
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Each one justified.
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Now cavalier,
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I cut myself loose,
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As if admitting the truth
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Makes it an excuse.

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My Empire of Dirt

They say it’s the little things, and that is such a cliché, but maybe it’s true. It’s like how I don’t like the cold, hard, crunchy days of February. They’re abrasive, scraping up against my skin to leave burns. Like freezer burns or rug burns. But life is just better when the weather’s nice, or during a steady rain. It doesn’t really change anything, yet somehow it matters. Even when the weather’s cold and gray, there are little things that can make it alright.

I went on a walk a couple of weeks ago, when the drifts of snow were so high, and on my way back to my equally-cold dorm room I felt I had to do something about this freezing phenomenon. I’m not sure why; I guess because the day brought something uncommon for the state of Kansas, I felt I had to do something uncommon of my own. I like to match the days like that, the way most people match their clothes.

So I went on the little hill in the middle of campus to make a snow angel. I looked around quickly before I plopped on my back in the snow, a shy smile on my face like a child about to make a new friend. For a second I was afraid I’d forgotten how—being a child isn’t like riding a bike, you know—but back and forth, back and forth, arms and legs, legs and arms and I remembered. It made me so happy. I don’t know why. Just something about that solitary, messy, childish act of spontaneity cheered me up. I wanted to skip and laugh and tell the whole world that I made a snow angel. That I got snow down the back of my shirt and all in my hair and soaking through my jeans, but I made a snow angel, just cause I had the impulse. Just me, all alone in the muffled white; a random gesture executed in complete silence.

It’s something I would’ve done Before without a second thought. I guess it reminded me of who I was then; who I still am that’s been buried.

The next week I found the feeling again, in the vacant volleyball court on a day warm enough to go out in short sleeves. The sand crunched softly as I knelt down and I felt it’s roughness in the scrapes on my knuckles as I leaned forward to inspect its consistency. Dig a hole, wet-dry, pile it up, wet-dry, pat it here and there and lean back on dirty knees to admire my sandcastle. Honestly I made far better ones when I was eight, but back then I didn’t understand the luxury it was to grip such simplicity—the elusive pleasure in constructing one’s own Empire of Dirt.

There is such power in the context of a sandbox. Shall I knock down the fortress I built with my own bare hands—a tyrant exerting control by display of easy destruction—or let it stand and become the benevolent ruler of the ants? Either way it is mine, and just for me. I’m not sure why it was so satisfying. Maybe lingering wisps of childhood; maybe the pleasure I take in having innocent secrets.

Or maybe I just like to play in the mud.

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Sandcastle

I pack each wall

Constructed by hand;

My own to destroy

Or let stand.

Back I lean

On dirty knees,

Benevolent ruler

Of the ants.


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